There is part of me
that floats on mirrors of sky
like the lotus, open-eyed,
poised on a pliant stem
like the cerebellum,
nourished invisibly,
cupping its face to rain and sun,
sensing alighting dragonflies,
registering each subtle ripple
attracting the shadowy,
predatory heron;
radiating back to the stars:
this is the part that writes.